Page 75 of Summer Warrior

Content that the mason, de Mares, was doing a good job, Somerled determined to leave for Islay with his two galleys and one longship the next day.

He was anxious to embrace his son.

Isle of Islay, early September 1138 A.D.

THE HEARTH FIRE BURNED steadily as Somerled sat at a table in the great hall, finishing his letter to Ragnhild. Gillecolum sat nearby bent over something he was carving out of wood. The boy had grown taller since he’d taken the lad from Ireland.

After weeks away in Scotland and England, their reunion had been sweet. Gillecolum was now in those difficult years between boyhood and manhood when he needed a father most. No longer did he play with wooden swords, now he practiced with a steel blade.

Somerled’s letter to the Princess of Man was short. Though his thoughts of her were tender and full of love, he did not seem to be able to write more than the barest of facts. He could not very well tell her that he intended they would be wed within the year, though he did. How he would accomplish that he did not yet know but he knew in his heart she would be his and not that far off. So, instead, he spoke of the outcome of the Battle of the Standard, as it was coming to be known. He thanked her for her prayers, telling her they were answered, that he and his men had survived. For that was the most important part. If he lived, there was hope for them. Ragnhild, being no fool, would understand the significance of that.

He had just sealed the letter with red wax using the new seal Duncan MacEachern, the Keills blacksmith, had made for him—a galley complete with sail inside a circle with a sprig of heather—when Maurice entered the hall.

Somerled rose, wondering what time of day it might be. He had lost track of time with his thoughts of the princess. What he could glimpse of the gray sky outside through the window did not tell him much.

Maurice’s mouth twitched up on one side. “I see you have written another letter. For the princess?”

“Aye,” said Somerled, rather sheepishly, still reluctant to admit what was apparent to all. “Now, I must find a way to take it to her.”

“I’ll do it,” offered Maurice. “’Twill give me another chance to visit my kin on the way.” At Somerled’s unspoken question, Maurice said, “Aye, I will visit your mother and let her know you and Angus live and that Gillecolum is thriving.”

Somerled’s son looked up and grinned.

“Thank you, Maurice. It will mean much to her to know we survived England. I have to assume the reports from Scotland have spoken of the king’s defeat and the death of thousands. She will be worried.”

“Aye, she will be.”

Somerled handed his friend the letter for Ragnhild. “I must sail to Morvern and then to Moidart to see what the stonemason d’Harcourt is doing.”

“If you take Liadan with you,” said Maurice, “you might as well take Domnall. He will want to call upon her brother, Diarmad.”

“I had planned to do so. Domnall would have insisted.”

Maurice ran a hand through his dark hair, grown longer with their sojourn in England. “Who can blame him with so bonny a lass not yet betrothed?”

“True. Ere we sail north, I want to speak to the shipwright in Keills who is known to Liadan to see if he might be willing to build some of our galleys. Rents can be forgiven for such assistance. Will you join us in Moidart?”

“I will, though it might be more than a sennight ere you next see me.”

Somerled gave Maurice a curt nod before each went his own way.

Having delivered all of the Islay men home hale and hearty, Somerled’s talks with the shipwright in Keills went well. He was happy to build galleys for their growing fleet and promised to solicit others on the isle to help.

A few days later, Somerled sailed north with two galleys. Maurice had taken the longship south to Ireland. Domnall captained one galley but Liadan sailed with Somerled, Angus and Gillecolum. The young couple had grown closer with Domnall’s return, and they would have enough time together in their visits to Knapdale and Morvern on the way to Moidart. There was no reason to tempt fate if Liadan was to be a virgin on her wedding night.

The Isle of Man, September 1138 A.D.

“WHEN WILL YOU LEAVE?” Ragnhild heard her father’s garrison commander ask, his deep voice carrying to where she stood in the shadows having just come in from the stables.

“In a few days, as the weather permits,” her father replied. “I will take the princess with me and visit my tenants on Skye before calling upon the Earl of Orkney. Rognvald has sent me a most gracious invitation.”

Ragnhild froze. What could her father have in mind? And why take her with him to Orkney? She could think of only one reason. No word had come from Somerled or any news, for that matter, as to what might have happened to him in England. She despaired to think her father might count him among the dead. She could not allow herself to do so.

“Shall I speak to the captain to ready your longship?” inquired the garrison commander.

“Thank you. While my forty men will be sufficient for a visit with tenants and to call upon the earl, best to tell them to be prepared for battle should we cross with pirates.”

The commander dipped his head. “As you wish, Sire.” With that, the commander departed through the door to the outer bailey on the opposite side of the hall.